


Saint Agnes Eve

by ladyspencer



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Happily Ever After, Marriage, low angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 11:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17446559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspencer/pseuds/ladyspencer
Summary: The wedding is over, the Christmas guests have gone home, and Darcy and Elizabeth settle in for a winter of getting to know one another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written to serve as an antidote to the post-Christmas or post-holiday blahs. It was intended to be sweet, gentle, and romantic. It ended up by serving as a catalyst for some wounded feelings--my wounded feelings. I love it anyway. I can pledge you my word that there is little or nothing here to distress anyone. You can enjoy it for what it says it is. 
> 
> It is dedicated with my thanks to AAMS, who beta read it for me.

1\. Darcy

 

He held his wife in the candlelit darkness, whispering soft words—tender, foolish words he could not imagine uttering to another woman—as he rubbed her back the way a parent would soothe a fretful child. As he did almost every night, he looked down at her face and form, exquisite in her slumber. He could almost count the eyelashes, and he had memorized the curves of her fair, rounded cheeks, the graceful arches of her eyebrows. He had studied her ears and the delicate line of her neck where it disappeared under the collar of her nightdress. He sighed. He would not think of the rest of her body, now hidden by the bedding. He had caught ravishing glimpses of her breasts, but he had never touched them. He was more familiar with her graceful legs, her curved hips and tiny waist, the enticing scent of her, and the warm place within that welcomed him. He resolutely put these thoughts out of his mind. 

She gave a soft little sigh and burrowed beneath the covers, signaling to him that she was deeply asleep. He did not touch her lips—ah, her lips—and instead left a gentle kiss on her soft, dark curls, catching that indefinable scent of fresh flowers and herbs that she used to wash her hair. Then he gently laid her down, something he had learned to do without awakening her, before pulling on his dressing-gown, putting out the candle, and tucking the covers over her shoulders and under her chin. As he reached the communicating door between their two rooms, he turned for one last look. Once he had gained his own room and shut the door silently, he hurried to get into his own bed, steeling himself against the icy-cold sheets. He put out the candle and composed himself for sleep. 

Fitzwilliam Darcy considered himself the most fortunate man in England. He had secured the affections of Elizabeth Bennet and had brought her home as his bride. They had been married for a month at Christmas, a holiday they celebrated at their Derbyshire home, Pemberley surrounded by their families and their most intimate friends. Prior to that, they had enjoyed the seclusion of a brief honeymoon in the Darcy house in London. Elizabeth was not a prize catch of the London season. She had no dazzling fortune; in fact, her dowry was almost non-existent. Nor did she meet the current standards of "classical" beauty. A petite brunette, she was blessed with a womanly, graceful figure, melting dark eyes, and a wealth of dark curls. Darcy turned from one side to the other as if to banish the disturbing thoughts of her physical beauty. 

Darcy was as aware as any man that beauty is fleeting. The things that had finally made him realize that she was the only woman he could ever love or marry were less tangible, more enduring than her beauty. She was born to be happy, and sometimes it seemed to him that her lively interest was drawn by everything and everyone surrounding her. She was among the most intelligent people, of either sex, that he had ever known, with a sharp, keen mind that was quick to grasp and to learn. Her merry ways and mocking smile could quickly melt into tenderness, as they often did with him. She had a way of brightening the dark corners that sometimes threatened to encroach on his spirits, lightening his mood with a single ironic quirk of an eyebrow and a sweet smile. Most importantly, Darcy believed that she had called him to be a better man, that she had awakened all those best parts of him that had had been there all along but that had been buried by his most improper pride. Her frank refusal of his first offer of marriage had stung him into an examination of his heart and his conscience, calling him—or goading him—to be his best self. She was immeasurably precious to him. 

Darcy turned again, onto his back, staring up into the shadows of his bed-canopy in the darkness. He had to acknowledge that he had been equipped with his principles by his father, and that his wife was helping him in his efforts to perfect them. Old Mr. Darcy had been just, merciful, and compassionate; though he was often stern with his only son, he had instructed Darcy carefully in his duties to his family and what he owed his dependents, tenants, and servants as well as to the larger world. In his youth, Darcy had learned to be diligent in his work, open-handed in his dealings with the poor and needy, and scrupulously fair and kind to those he was responsible for. Although his responsibilities had come to him at a young age, he had stepped into them competently and had been mostly successful. 

What might be termed his sentimental education had been a little less clear-cut. George Darcy had been a remarkably moral man. He had also been deeply, truly in love with his wife, Lady Anne. Theirs had been a true love match, and their passionate devotion to each other, and to their young son, had been evident to all, even to Darcy as a child. There are secrets in any marriage nevertheless, secrets that are known only to the husband and wife, and this was true of the Darcys. Anne's health was fragile, and bearing her firstborn had been far too taxing. The depth and sincerity of her love for her son was unquestionable, as fixed and unmoving as her love for her husband. She longed for another child, but after several tragic miscarriages, she and her husband decided, for the sake of their son, to follow the joint advice of a physician and a midwife that another child would kill her. They would avoid another conception. After a few years, Anne could no longer follow that path. She began to beg her husband for another child, and eventually he capitulated. Their baby, Georgiana, was bright, beautiful, and healthy. Of course, the birth proved to be too much for Anne, and within the year, her strength had ebbed away, and she reluctantly slipped out of the life she loved so much. Her husband endured another twelve years without her before he followed her to the grave. 

His experiences had given George Darcy some decided opinions about married life, and his moral code required him to share them with his son. "Women of our class are delicate," he would say. "Their spiritual sensibilities alone make this so, but they are often also more physically delicate. Baser instincts are present even in the finest, most moral men because we are the stronger sex. Even the ancients, in their great wisdom, asserted that gentlewomen always suffer more in childbirth. A man must spare the delicacy of the woman he loves whatever he suffers on his own account." He went on to explain that marital relations should always be undertaken for the creation of children, according to God's plan, and that it was incumbent on the husband to undertake these encounters, in the words of the marriage service, "reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God." Darcy recalled that his father had practical and frank advice on how this should be carried out. The wife should not be importuned or imposed upon too often. A true gentleman always asked his wife's permission before visiting her. Her modesty should be protected by sparing her the sight of her husband's nakedness. Her husband must also take care never to uncover more of his wife's nakedness than was absolutely necessary. 

Of course, the senior Darcy was well aware that the flesh is weak. Although he had never felt the need to resort to them himself, he commented obliquely on the availability of private establishments in London or thoroughly vetted Cyprians in exclusive relationships—should such measures become necessary. He insisted that wives should be sheltered from any knowledge of such activities. And he was adamant that young girls and women of lower classes should not be harmed, shamed, or even touched. Virtue was to be protected wherever it was encountered. He stressed all of these precepts over and over during several lengthy and serious discussions with his son over the years. 

After his earlier encounter with his wife, and after a couple of hours of tossing as he thought about the advice of his father, Darcy was still wide awake. He gave up in disgust, threw on his dressing-gown against the now-glacial chill, and walked barefoot to the fireplace to make up the fire. Then, armed with a brandy, he sat in his chair and thought—or perhaps he brooded. He had never had any trouble following his father's advice on the defiling of local maidens. His exposure to Wickham had given him a lifelong disgust of such behavior. He had already contributed funds to four innocents and four wronged mothers whose lives had been destroyed by that wastrel. He had expended considerable resources on securing the marriage to Lydia Bennet, and he had little hope that he would ever see the end of Wickham. 

His earlier experiences in London had been in the correct, discreet establishments described by his father, and there had also been young widows and a well-conducted, satisfying affair when he had the keeping of an experienced auburn-haired professional beauty. That arrangement had ended a few years ago with no regrets and some very pleasant memories. Since that time, he had been alone, focused on his estates, his family, and—quite frankly—on avoiding the traps laid by unmarried ladies from his own set. That was, until he had lost his heart to Elizabeth. 

 

His thoughts had led him neatly around in a circle, and he allowed himself to think of her again. He had done his best in their encounters so far. He did his best not to surprise or offend her, and he judged that his efforts were creditable. He went to her most nights attired in nightshirt and dressing-gown, tapping gently at their shared door and entering with a bottle of wine, or sometimes even a pot of tea. Her warm smile, which she seemed to keep just for him, always greeted him, and her eyes were always alight. They would sit on the sofa by her fire and talk. Most times there were many things they wanted to share; the experiences of the times they spent apart, glimmers of humor and bits of frustration, serious plans and more trivial ones. They freely shared advice and counsel. They discovered that they both had the same wry manner of looking at the world and its people, and Darcy rejoiced in his wife's teasing, her sense of the absurd, and her ability to cheer him. 

At some point, he would look over at her and smile, she would smile back, and they would walk to her bed hand in hand. Here they shared tender words and sweet, chaste kisses. He would caress her gently and intimately, taking care never to be rough or to hurt her, never allowing her to become too passionate, shielding her from the weight of his body, the sight of his naked self. The moment of their joining was pure bliss for him, always tempered by his desire to cherish and protect her. In the moments afterward, he would settle them both, holding her, confiding his love, watching her fall asleep. Then he would leave her and return to his own bed, counting the hours until they could meet in the morning. 

Darcy was startled by the sound of a log falling into the fire. The room was cold again, and he had all but finished his brandy. He checked the fire and sought his chilly bed once more. As he stared up again at the canopy, he faced the truth about himself without flinching. While their encounters satisfied his basic physical needs, he was on fire for her. His body and his entire being blazed with his thirst for Elizabeth. 

 

Elizabeth 

 

Elizabeth Darcy stirred from her deep sleep. She heard the distant sound of a clock downstairs chiming three o'clock. It was at this precise time that she seemed to wake up every night. Perhaps she had grown cold under the covers, or perhaps she needed a drink of water. She rejected the idea of coming out of the covers on such a cold night, as she felt she might never get warm again. 

As usual, her first thoughts were of her husband and his earlier visit. She lived for those times when they were together intimately. She loved everything about his visits. The time spent quietly by the fire talking over their days, sometimes laughing, sometimes silent, was precious to her. She could never remember hearing her parents talking in that way. She always felt a shiver of excitement when he would finally smile at her, raise an eyebrow in inquiry, and lead her gently to the bed. His care for her was exquisite. They would share sweet, sweet kisses, lips clinging together. Sometimes he would forsake her mouth in favor of her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks. She admitted that his kisses to her ears and neck were among the most delightful. When she would kiss him back in imitation, she was rewarded with his sharply indrawn breath and his murmured expressions of delight. 

When the time came for their joining, he would always find some way of asking first, and she would always smile and breathe a soft "yes." He would settle them comfortably, raise her nightgown, and begin to caress that secret place between her thighs. At some point, she would feel a sensation of wetness—embarrassing at first until she realized it was supposed to happen—and then he would join with her. It gave her such an exquisite feeling of fullness that she had to remind herself who was in charge and that she should lie still so that he could take his pleasure. The effect on her husband seemed to be profound. Sometimes he would close his eyes, although more often they were fixed on her. Sometimes his breath became ragged, and hoarse, and involuntary sounds escaped his lips. Occasionally his face and head would become damp with perspiration, and she would gently stroke the hair away from his forehead and eyes. The sweetest times were at his moment of completion when he would call out her name—gasping, or sobbing or whispering. She watched his face at those times, observing that he seemed to go away for a few moments to some other place; he always returned to her quickly with his slow, sweet smile, and he would hold her in his arms and whisper the sweetest endearments until he had lulled her to sleep in the warm bed. Only later would she awaken to find he had returned to his own rooms. 

Elizabeth buried her head in the sheets and pillows, trying as she often did to catch a hint of Fitzwilliam's warm, masculine scent. She came near to craving it. It soothed her in those long hours of darkness. She felt a hot flush of embarrassment spread over her cheeks. She was forced to admit this craving if only to herself. She loved encountering him in the late hours of the morning as he came in with the other gentlemen from whatever had been their morning's pursuits. She would embrace him and catch the warm tang of his sweat overlaid with the smell of horses or gunpowder or some other remnant of their activities. Her husband would kiss her, and with a smile, excuse himself to go and make himself presentable. 

She was certain, in her heart, that she was far too wanton. Her mother was her only counsel on married life. Both Elizabeth and her sister Jane had been the beneficiaries of many lectures in the days and weeks leading up to their double wedding. A lady was always a lady, her mother had said, even in the bedroom. They would be placed on pedestals and treated like queens if only they would ensure that the restraint they had learned in the drawing-room would be carried through to the bedroom. They must behave with modesty, delicacy, and patience, always submitting to their spouses. The best way was simply to lie quietly back, always smiling, never showing any undue or vulgar emotion. Mrs. Bennet assured them that they would gain ample satisfaction as their babies began to arrive and that they would find their true reward in being the hearts of their households. She was also liberal in her allusions to the joys of carriages, fine laces, and pin-money. She stressed the vital importance of providing an heir. For this reason alone, relations should be allowed whenever the husband requested them, although a wife should never be so bold as to request them herself. 

The two sisters had discussed these lectures, always delivered to both of them, only briefly. Both young women had come to rely over the years on their Aunt Gardiner, their mother's sister-in-law, for sensible advice about a variety of topics. Both had expected to discuss issues of married life with her, and they had been disappointed. Aunt Gardiner had been ordered to bed for a difficult pregnancy with her fifth child, and therefore Elizabeth and Jane had communicated only happy news, exciting chatter, and bits of gossip in their letters. They felt her absence keenly in the days leading up to their wedding, and the days afterward had included some concern for her. Word had finally come to Pemberley two days before Christmas that their aunt had been delivered of a "beautiful boy," that she and the child were well and happy, and that she was wild to see them. But it would have to wait. 

Elizabeth and Jane had been anxious to see each other over the Christmas holidays, but they had been too shy to speak of the most private things. Jane looked happy, and Elizabeth felt certain that she, herself, looked happy, too. She was the happiest she had ever been. Deeply in love with her husband, she felt entirely secure in him, blessed with the conviction that their affection could only deepen over time. She had long since given up trying to decide how or even why she had come to love him so much. After the hard parting between them in Kent the previous spring, and after the disaster of her sister's infamous elopement with George Wickham, she had become convinced that she could not bear to know that Fitzwilliam Darcy was alive in the world and thinking ill of her. That deep conviction seemed to mark a turning point in her feelings towards him, and she had never looked back. His kindness to her family in securing Lydia's marriage had only reinforced her affection. She could not imagine a better man. Her own father had summed it up perfectly: "He deserves you." Sometimes Elizabeth could not believe that it had all turned out for the best. 

She tried to settle more deeply in the covers, questing for vestiges of warmth in the bed, only to be annoyed as her feet encountered an icy-cold spot in the sheets. She resolutely turned her thoughts back to the Gardiners and their new little boy, who was to be called Thomas. She had been invited to stand as his godmother, and she looked forward to performing that office in the spring. There was something indefinable about her aunt and uncle and their marriage, something she could not quite set her finger on. Obviously, they loved each other. Their mutual esteem was evident to all who knew them well. But there was something else. Occasionally a look would pass between the pair of them—a fleeting glance that quietly proclaimed that each of them was pleased with the other. She could not account for it. But she thought, oh she thought, that she had seen the same fleeting look on the faces of her sister and Charles Bingley. 

Elizabeth's thoughts returned to the worrying idea that she had a defect in her character. With no guidance but her own observations and no experienced confidante, her inmost thoughts seemed (in the words of her cousin Collins) to be "naturally bad." She had certainly come to her marriage in complete innocence and chastity. She belonged to Fitzwilliam Darcy, heart, mind, and body. Where, then, did these feelings come from? She felt her face break out in another flush, followed by cold perspiration that chilled her. Burrowing for warmth, she decided to face the facts about herself. She had done so before, often with unpleasant or startling results. But if she could look at herself honestly, at least she would know where she stood. 

The plain truth was that she was ravenous for her husband's touch, for his body. His hands, his lips, his gentle kisses and caresses sent little paths of fire along her nerves. Some deep-seated part of her felt there must be more. She wanted to touch him. The triangle of flesh at his neck, revealed by his nightshirt, half tormented her. She could see and sometimes feel the light sprinkling of dark hairs there, and the curve where his neck joined his shoulders. She admired the sight of him before he put on his coat or after he took it off, when the immaculate linen and form-fitting clothes hinted at the powerful body just beneath, hidden from her view. Because she was trying to be unflinchingly honest, she continued her inventory, pushing herself to face the facts. Her breasts ached when she pressed against him. She knew with certainty that they were the God-given instruments for providing life to her children. She had certainly observed women of her own class as well as tenants and other neighbors nursing their infants. She even had recollections of her own mother nourishing her younger sisters in turn. Even the flighty Mrs. Bennet disapproved of wet-nurses and fostering unless something went wrong. She had learned to regard such times as tender, almost sacred moments, and she had looked forward to having a babe of her own. Why, why, then, did she want her husband to touch her there? She concluded it must be a perversion. But oh, her depravity was worse even than this. She should face the fact that she was entirely fascinated by that most secret, most intimate part of him, the virile member that seemed to have such a life of its own. He kept it decently hidden behind layers of sober cloth or beneath his dressing-gown and nightshirt. At some magical point, when he kissed and caressed her, it would change, growing hard and powerful so that he could join with her. She knew it was the means by which he shared his seed with her, and she knew that the act caused him pleasure. Unaccountably, it caused her pleasure too, though apparently not as great as his. She wanted to feel more of it. Above all things, she wanted to touch him there, to see and handle that mysterious part of him. 

Elizabeth turned on her side. There was no one, not even her beloved Fitzwilliam, in whom she could confide these things. She was on her own, and she resolved to do her best to overcome all of these obstacles, to provide him with the best home she could, and to see to his comfort in all things. She wanted more than anything else to make him happy because she understood that she loved him so much that her happiness depended on his. She would endeavor always to do nothing that would cause him to think ill of her. She fell asleep clutching the pillow where he had last laid his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lull before the storm.

A Cold Day 

 

Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam Darcy slept uneasily in their separate beds, each unaware that the other had been awake and wrestling with similar questions during the night. Sleep was fitful and unrewarding, and when it finally came, each of them slept until the sun was well up the next morning. 

 

Darcy's first action after leaving his bed was always the same. He looked out of his heavily curtained window at the weather outside. On this day, he found pale, watery sunlight with high clouds above. Frost lay everywhere, and there was no wind. It was very cold. He turned from his window as his valet, Cooper, entered, and he began his preparations for the day ahead. 

 

Next door, Elizabeth was awake not long after him. Franklin, her maid, brought in a small tray with a cup of chocolate. "Good morning, ma'am. It is a sunny day, but very cold. You will want a gown of wool stuff and an extra petticoat today." Elizabeth smiled and nodded, finishing her chocolate quickly before leaving the warmth of her bed. She found herself suppressing a sneeze or two and felt a slight congestion in her head, perhaps a touch of dryness in her throat. Aside from these trifling annoyances, she felt quite well. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the bustle and excitement of the wedding, the change of moving to Pemberley, and the many activities of their Christmas gathering. Franklin, ever alert to the needs of her mistress, offered to make up the bed and to fetch hot, soothing tea and her breakfast so that she could rest.

 

"It is not usually necessary, Franklin, though I thank you. I am a scandal to my mother, for when I am feeling unwell, I generally find more relief in a nice walk than I do in taking to my bed like an invalid. This is a little, trifling cold. I shall not die of it." 

Franklin, who was brushing out Elizabeth's hair, smiled. "Well, ma'am, we servants do not take to our beds at the first sign of a cold, either. However, it has always seemed to me that the great ladies suffer most. It is a shame." She paused for a moment. "I take it you were the cause of much despair to your mother. She seems quite a proper lady, if I may say so. But I do believe that if you wish a nice, brisk walk, perhaps you should take it indoors today. The weather is cold enough that it might cause you to take a turn for the worse." Franklin delighted Elizabeth. She was still young, though not in the first blush of youth, and she was practical but blessed with a sense of humor.

 

"My mother should be grateful to me for all the years in which I served as an example to my sisters—an example of what NOT to do." Elizabeth dimpled. "I will follow your excellent advice about the woolen gown and petticoats, Franklin. And I will add a nice pair of warm stockings to that."

 

Franklin was setting out a flattering, simple gown in soft rose wool. "Your merino shawl would set this off quite nicely, ma'am. The lighter one. We don't want to roast you, either."

 

"It is a fine idea. This is our first morning with the house to ourselves."

 

A short time later, after Elizabeth heard a soft knock at her door to the corridor. Franklin opened it to admit Fitzwilliam Darcy, dressed for the day and smiling down at her. "Good morning, Mrs. Darcy. May I accompany you down to breakfast?" Elizabeth held her face up for a kiss and took his offered arm, and they walked down the wide staircase to the family breakfast-parlor. Once they had helped themselves to breakfast, he spoke again. "The house seems very quiet, but I cannot say I am sorry to have you all to myself." 

 

“It was a wonderful gathering. But I was also happy to see it come to an end. I believe by the end of today, everyone will have arrived safely at home." The guests had left two days before. The Bingleys and the Bennets, traveling together, would reach Meryton by late afternoon today. The Hursts, including Caroline Bingley, had planned to spend only one night on the road as they traveled to Hurst's estate in Yorkshire. Georgiana, Kitty Bennet, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and the Earl and Countess of Matlock had made up a merry party as they left for the thirty-mile drive to the Earl's estate. The Darcys had already received word of their safe arrival. 

 

"What are your plans for today, Fitzwilliam?" 

 

"You," he said simply, smiling as he set down his cup. "You are my entire plan. I should like to acquaint you with the library and show you how the books are arranged. I have in my study some articles that belonged to my mother which I would like to share with you. And, it is my hope that you will play and sing for me after dinner if you are so inclined." 

 

"That sounds like a lovely day. I had been hoping to take a short walk today, but Franklin has pronounced it too cold. She recommends a walk in the gallery, especially since I have sneezed a time or two." 

 

"If you are sneezing, then I agree with her. I am sure you do not wish to fall ill." 

 

When the couple had finished their breakfast, Darcy came around the table to his wife. "Now, which shall be first? Study or library." 

Elizabeth smiled up at him. "A difficult choice. I say it should be the study first because I know that when we get to the library, I will not want to leave it." 

 

Before long, Elizabeth was seated in the comfortable study next to a warm fire. She knew that there was a much more formal room off the great hall equipped with desk and writing tools. Her husband reserved this cozy and book-cluttered room adjoining the library for his private use. Few, aside from the upper servants, his steward, and Elizabeth herself were ever admitted. Others were seen in that more formal setting. She settled into the soft cushions of a small sofa, holding her feet out towards the welcoming fire. Fitzwilliam went to the strongbox in the corner and emerged with a large, sturdy wooden box. He pulled a table over to the sofa, placed the box on it, and came to sit beside her, putting his arm around her. 

 

"Open it," he said with a smile. 

 

The top came off easily and revealed a somewhat jumbled collection of leather boxes, velvet bags, and plump rolls, some faded and worn, some newer-looking. Elizabeth looked at him and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

 

"Just choose one and open it, Lizzy." 

 

She reached over, chose a worn black box, and slid the catch open to reveal a necklace, pendant, and earrings of perfect rubies, gleaming in their bright gold setting. "Fitzwilliam, how beautiful! I am quite overcome!" 

 

"Would you not like to try them on?" 

 

With his help, the necklace and pendant were soon clasped about her neck. She stood and went to a small mirror hanging next to the door, admiring the jewels as she put on the earrings. "They are magnificent! I know not what to say." 

 

"You need not say anything. Your expression is thanks enough." 

 

“But what is the occasion?” You have already given me some beautiful jewels—my pearl necklace, for example. And my ring. It is too much!" 

 

"For you, nothing is too much. Come and sit down." He clasped his arm around her shoulder. "These are the Darcy jewels, handed down from one bride to the next for generations. Georgiana has most—though not all—of my mother's personal collection. These were given to my father to give to my mother, and now they are mine to give to you." 

 

Elizabeth looked up at him. He might have presented them as grand, lavish gifts. He might have strung out the giving over years of special occasions. Instead, he—he just gave them to her—freely, simply, and with his whole heart. "And one day, if it is God's plan, we will give them to our son for his bride. And after that you will be a grandpapa." 

 

"I'll not complain, just as long as you are there with me, my darling." 

 

Elizabeth thought to send a footman to Franklin asking for a hand mirror to be sent from her dressing-table. This was done, and they sat together admiring the beautiful jewels as she tried them on. Darcy knew many of the stories attached to them—which great-grandmother had been presented at the court of which monarch wearing those emeralds, which young mother had been given those diamonds upon the birth of her first child. He could particularly recall anecdotes about his own mother, Lady Anne Darcy. 

 

"She loved jewelry, and she particularly loved colored stones as opposed to diamonds or even pearls. The sapphires you are wearing now were her particular favorites, and she wore them often. She also loved another set with pearls which we will discover as we go along." 

 

"After looking at the family portraits, it seems Georgiana takes after your mother." 

 

"She certainly does. Our mother was tall and blonde, and she had bright-blue eyes just the color of these gems. Certainly, that must have been why she favored them." 

 

"You seldom speak of your mother." 

 

"Perhaps there is not a great deal to be said." Darcy settled back and allowed himself to become lost in his memories. "My earliest memories are only of delight. When I was a small boy, my parents welcomed me to be with them at every possible opportunity. I had breakfast with them every morning from before I can remember. During morning hours, I often rode out with my father, held on the front of his saddle until I grew big enough for a pony of my own. Most afternoons, I went to my mother. She taught me my letters, and I can recall having a fine time with her as she did so. She made learning a joy, and she had me reading before I knew what I was about." He sighed. "In those early days, she played with me as well. She would throw the ball for me to catch, or if the weather was bad, she would visit the nursery, and we would build elaborate castles and fortifications. She always had time for me." 

 

"It sounds like a delightful and carefree childhood!" 

 

"It was. About the time I grew old enough to have a tutor, things changed. I was told at some point that God was sending me a new little brother or sister, but that we would not know which it would be for quite some time. I was excited. But then my mother took to her bed, and I could only visit her for a short time each day. She was still my beautiful mother, still patient and kind to me, but she was tired and pale and did not leave her bed." He sighed deeply. "One afternoon they took me to her. She took me in her arms and told me that God had taken my new little brother to Heaven, where he would be an angel and always watch over me. Oh, how I wept. And she wept with me." 

 

Elizabeth put her arms around him, tears standing in her own eyes. "Oh, my darling. That is so sad! I am so sorry." 

"It was, unfortunately, the end of our truly happy times, though there was still a great deal of love. I became busy with my studies and play. Wickham had become a part of the household by that time, and I had my Fitzwilliam cousins as well. My mother was always present in my life, but I began to feel an obligation to take care of her rather than having her take care of me." 

 

"Little boys who take great care of their mothers are universally charming." 

 

"We went on in that vein for some years. My father was always my father—just, fair, and kind. But he grew more distant. He worried about my mother. And sometimes—sometimes they disagreed. Quarreled even. I could never tell what it was about, but I could sense it. In my tenth year, my mother took to her bed again. I was not told the reason, but eventually I was told that I had a new baby sister. I was elated when my mother showed her to me. She was the most endearing little thing, like a little poppet. They gave her to me to hold, and I was terrified I would break her. But I knew straightaway that it was my job to take care of her as I did my mother." 

 

"And so you have. I have it on the very best authority that you, personally, are the best elder brother any girl could wish for. Did you never tease Georgiana or leave her out of your games? Or order her about?" 

 

"You know, I do not believe I ever did. Wickham and my cousins could be unkind, but I was her staunch defender." 

 

"I know that made your mother happy." 

 

Darcy's eyes grew shuttered. "My mother was happy, radiantly so. So was my father. But it is obvious that she never recovered from Georgiana's birth. She died about a year later—radiant and happy to the end." 

 

Elizabeth laid her hand on his chest. "And part of your heart went with her. How could it not?" 

 

Darcy took her hand and kissed it, then squared his shoulders and reached for another box. "This was intended to be a happy occasion, dearest. I should like to see you try on this one." 

 

They continued in this pleasant occupation for at least two hours more. Elizabeth was able to persuade Darcy into speaking more about his father as well as his mother. But for the most part, they discussed the jewels, deciding which could be worn immediately, which needed the attention of the jeweler, and which could possibly be re-made into more fashionable and modern pieces. These were few in number, as Elizabeth much preferred the traditional settings. They also selected a lovely necklace and matching earrings of pearls and sapphires as a gift for Georgiana on the occasion of her debut during the upcoming season. Elizabeth declared them perfect for a young lady, and Darcy recalled that his sister had admired them. The fact that their mother had also favored them added to the delicate sentimentality of the gift. 

 

When Darcy suggested that it was time for luncheon, they both realized that Elizabeth had not even begun to explore the plump silken and velvet rolls. "Those contain what I would call trinkets," said Darcy. "I suggest we lock the more valuable jewels back in the safe.   
You may wish to send these rolls up to your rooms to be explored later. They can safely be housed in your trinket box, and I hope you will find things you will enjoy wearing every day." 

 

"My trinket box and I will be very happy to have them," replied his wife with a dimple. 

 

When they had finished their luncheon, Darcy suggested they go immediately to the library. Elizabeth had been in the room several times since their arrival at Pemberley. In fact, it was the one place she could be assured of finding her father. He had made it his headquarters during his visit, as it was the sole room in the house where he could be assured of peace and quiet. Darcy's plan for the afternoon was to show her how to find what she wanted and to show her where he and Georgiana preferred to sit. 

 

Elizabeth listened attentively as Darcy showed her around the shelves. The books were organized and catalogued according to title, author, and subject, and she thought it might take her years to learn the complex system. Darcy laughed. "You will be a true proficient in no time, Elizabeth. You have not yet met my secretary, Mr. Mullins. He has replaced my father as watchful dragon where the organization of the books is concerned, and when he returns from the South next month, he will make a point of acquainting you with everything you need to know." He directed her to a shelf near the door. "Meanwhile, I hope you will feel free to examine any volume you wish. When you have finished reading it, simply place it here, and it will be returned to its proper place on the shelves." He gestured towards the main area of the library. "Would you like to make a few choices now? When you have done so, it will be my pleasure to show you some of our favorite reading nooks." 

 

Elizabeth smiled and went immediately to the shelves, taking time to enjoy the beautiful room. Occupying one whole end of one wing of the house, it was singularly graceful. Afternoon sunlight flooded the library from a multitude of tall windows on three sides. The dark wood shelves gleamed with care, and the smell of leather, that indefinable smell of books, was everywhere. Comfortable chairs and tables were situated near many of the windows, and along the outside of the room a fire crackled in a massive fireplace where leather chairs, a sofa, and a chaise longue were drawn up in a haphazard, cozy arrangement. Near another window she saw a long, polished table and several wooden armchairs ideally situated for reading maps or charts or for perusing large volumes. Large atlases, lexicons, and other reference works stood open on wooden stands. Another table held the latest newspapers from London and other cities and a selection of magazines. 

 

She wandered through the shelves, finally selecting a French novel, a book of Wordsworth's poems, and a book of color plates depicting paintings of the Old Masters. With these in hand, she went in search of her husband, who was awaiting her by the fire. 

 

"I have sent for tea," he said with a smile. "This, for me, is the most comfortable spot in the library, though you may prefer somewhere else." 

 

Elizabeth picked out his chair immediately. Large and nondescript, it was upholstered in well-worn leather. A table piled high with books was drawn up beside it. She could also easily distinguish Georgiana's chair. Smaller, but equally comfortable-looking, it was graced with a couple of plump cushions, and its adjoining table boasted sheets of music, novels, and texts she must be working through with her governess and masters. 

 

"I love this corner. I confess I am drawn to the chaise longue. When no one is about, I can indulge my predilection for sitting on my feet, sprawling, or curling up. I see it is equipped with a very soft-looking blanket." 

 

Darcy merely smiled and handed her over to the seat. He was in somewhat of a turmoil, which he did his best to hide. Since his first meeting with Elizabeth at Meryton, this very chaise had figured prominently in a number of vivid dreams which included her. None of them could possibly be described as "gentlemanlike." He had learned long ago that he could not hold himself accountable for that which visited him in dreams, so long as his waking behavior was kept under good regulation. But he was disturbed by a fleeting vision in which he pressed her back against the high, curving arm of the chaise and slowly devoured her with kisses. 

 

Fortunately, Providence intervened in the shape of the footman who brought in the tea tray and pulled a table alongside the large piece of furniture. Darcy merely sat down beside his wife and waited as she poured the tea and settled her skirts gracefully. He nodded his approval of her reading choices before showing her his own, which consisted largely of scientific and agricultural treatises. "Feel free to sprawl, sit on your feet, or curl up." Mischief glinted in his eye. "Your secrets shall be safe with me." 

 

"I will wait until I have finished my tea. But you should understand that I may never leave this room again." 

 

"That would be a pity." Darcy set his cup down before taking Elizabeth's and setting it aside as well. He moved closer to her, put his arm around her, and fell to kissing her. As he did so, he stopped for a fraction of an instant. Had he felt her respond in something more than her usual delicate fashion? Had her lips parted ever so briefly? He could not be sure, and he continued kissing her until she broke off, laughingly kissing his nose. He took her by the chin and kissed her again, finally whispering, "May I visit you tonight, my darling?" 

 

“Yes, of course. I cannot imagine a time when I would not be happy to see you.” She sneezed again into her handkerchief. 

 

“Your cold is not making you feel too ill?” 

 

She put her hands in her lap and smiled. "No indeed! It is trifling. People do not grow ill and die from little trifling colds!" 

 

"I understand. Even so, would you not be more comfortable in your bed? Permit me to ring for Franklin. She can assist you." 

 

"That will not be necessary, dearest. Franklin and I have already had a conversation this morning. She knows the awful truth about me, and I suppose you should also know." 

 

"The awful truth?" 

 

"Yes. I am the most unladylike creature and the despair of my mother. She expected—no, she ordered—all five of us to our beds when we were ill or indisposed. It was a lady's duty to lie there, like Patience on a monument, only I believe Patience sits on her monument, enduring the dreadful suffering we were experiencing due to our colds, or our rose fever, or our turned ankles. No real lady would stir from her bed at such times. To do otherwise marked one as common, or 'ordinary' as she would say. The only time she deviated from that belief was that time she sent poor Jane out into the storm to visit Netherfield, and as you and I know, the poor dear lay ill for a week." Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands over her mouth. "I, being incorrigible, found far greater comfort in creeping out of the house for a long ramble, not too fast or too strenuous. Fresh air and exercise have always made me feel better—weather permitting, of course. But you may be sure those excursions were shrouded in secrecy, conducted in the dawn hours when only Cook was about. Mama also made sure to revisit this subject as part of her series of lectures to Jane and myself in preparation for our marriages. She must have suspected me of disobedience." 

 

"Your mother gave you a series of lectures?" 

 

"Oh, yes, indeed she did." 

 

Darcy was smiling. "And will you share with your husband what words of wisdom she imparted?" 

 

Elizabeth grew thoughtful, and her expressive eyes became serious. "You know, as I think back on the whole thing, there was very little in the way of wisdom. Oh, I am certain she did her best. But she is far more concerned with the importance of keeping up appearances. We must behave as perfect ladies, every hour of every day, without exception. Our rewards for success include," here Elizabeth paused to think, and as she continued, she used the fingers of one hand to enumerate. "Our rewards shall consist of being the mistresses of great houses, having lots of babies of our own, the undying admiration of our husbands—not to mention everybody else, and then of course there are the jewels, furs, carriages, and pin money." She smiled up at him impishly. "But such rewards come only to perfect, flawless ladies." 

 

"If you'll forgive me for saying so, you sound as though you remain unconvinced." 

 

"Well, if you will forgive me for saying so, I managed to secure your affection despite dirty boots, petticoats six inches deep in mud, windblown hair, a singular lack of accomplishments, and a truly regrettable tendency to speak my mind regardless of the consequences." 

 

He drew her close again and kissed her cheek. "I would not want you any other way. You shall hear no complaints from me. Besides, what can you possibly mean by a lack of accomplishments? You speak French and Italian, you are well versed in English literature, and you are not at all afraid of mathematics. You read extensively, you have a keen grasp of national and international affairs, and you read the entire newspaper, not just the society columns. Besides, you play the piano and sing like an angel." 

 

"Ah, but I cannot embroider. I can do only 'ordinary' sewing. When I try to draw or paint, you cannot distinguish my horses and dogs from elephants and lions. I am completely unable to trim a bonnet—though I do so love to buy new ones. I do not quill--" 

 

"Quill?" 

 

"Oh, do not ask. I cannot paint china. I cannot net purses. And as for my knowledge of the classics, in one of her lectures, Mama urged me in the strongest possible terms to keep it hidden from you." 

 

"Ah, so perfect ladies are also stupid and dull?" 

 

"Let us consider it in this light. I have a doll who has been my treasure since childhood. In fact, she has come to live here at Pemberley with all her gowns. She is called Clarissa, and it is my hope that I will someday have a little girl to share her with. She is tall—a little over two feet, perhaps. She is slender, with a tiny waist and—to be honest—not much of a bosom. Her hands and feet are made of soft kidskin, her body is stuffed with sawdust, and she has dark hair—like me—brown eyes, rosy cheeks, and a perfect, porcelain complexion. We can attribute that to the fact that her head is, indeed, white porcelain. She sits or lies quietly, wherever she is placed, and she never complains about anything. She simply lies there, smiling her sweet smile, waiting for something to happen. If you asked my mother, Clarissa would be the perfect lady." 

 

"But surely if she has been your doll, she has had many adventures." 

 

"Yes, she has. In fact, her crown was broken just like Jack's in the nursery rhyme, and Hill had to help me mend her with egg whites. However, it would be unkind to blame her for any scrapes she got into. I was decidedly the ringleader." 

 

"Your mother is a woman of decided opinions." 

 

"My mother was making it all up out of whole cloth as she went along. I cannot imagine why that did not occur to me until I mentioned my dear Clarissa." She sighed. "Jane and I have always relied on Aunt Gardiner for practical advice about matters both important and trivial. She is the wise woman of the family. But of course, she has been otherwise engaged. When it comes to affairs of—shall we say—home and hearth, or married life in general, my mother has been my only advisor." Elizabeth picked up the teapot. "And now, husband, will you have more tea?" 

 

They remained in a companionable silence, reading, until it was time to dress for dinner. As they left the library arm in arm, Darcy stopped for a moment. "I will bring you Mrs. Reynolds’ special tea this evening. I do look forward to our time together, and this has been a wonderful day." 

 

When Darcy's knock sounded at their communicating door later that evening, he carried a tea tray, which he set down near the fire. "Mrs. Reynolds has been brewing this for us since we were children, and it is guaranteed to cause you to feel better and to sleep like a babe." 

 

They sat drinking the fragrant brew, and soon they were talking of Elizabeth's desire to learn to ride in the spring. She was determined to have none but her husband as riding instructor while he advanced the idea that the head groom was far more experienced at giving ladies their first lessons riding side-saddle. Before long, Elizabeth's head began to droop, and presently she was asleep with her head resting on her husband's chest. He sat with her for some timeless interval, breathing in the fragrance of her hair and watching each breath that she took. When she stirred and settled still closer against him, he realized she was deeply asleep. He picked her up effortlessly and carried her to her bed, tucking the bedding carefully around her before placing a gentle kiss on her lips. 

 

When he straightened, reluctantly, to leave her, she stirred and reached out to him. “Will you not stay, my dearest? When I awaken alone in my bed, after you have gone, it is always so very cold. Please stay, and I shall be warm all night.” 

 

Darcy regarded her with well-concealed astonishment, although she appeared more than half asleep. He had long dreamt of sharing her bed, and he leaned over again and said, “Let me put out the candles, and I will return to you, Lizzy.” He quickly went to his own room and extinguished the single candle there. Then he returned to his wife’s room, checked the fire, and put out the candles one by one before taking off his dressing-gown and sliding under the covers beside her. He noticed with delight that she had left room for him, and she placed her arm around his neck and burrowed into his shoulder with a proprietary air that would have been comical if he had not been so entranced by her. He thought he might lie awake all night, but Mrs. Reynolds' tea was working its magic on Darcy as well. He drifted off with a sense of ease and well-being he seldom experienced, and both he and Elizabeth slept through the whole night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm adding it to the end so that it doesn't spoil your reading. I have to say that Clarissa is very, very real. She resides with me and sits for the most part on my grandmother's rocking chair. She has been handed down from one girl child to the next for almost two hundred years. Her head is white porcelain, her body is muslin stuffed with horsehair, and her hands and feet were, for most of those years, made of kidskin. She was actually stolen from my mother in a home invasion a little more than ten years ago, found by me (through a miracle) on eBay, and returned to us by two Baltimore City detectives and a writer for the Baltimore "Sun." Her head was indeed cracked a hundred years ago by my grandmother and mended with egg whites by my great-grandmother. In fact, that was how I was able to identify her for the police and the officials at eBay. I am so very happy that there is a little girl child, my precious granddaughter, waiting to welcome Clarissa to her own arms in a few years, and when that happens, she will enter her third century. If we judge by Velveteen Rabbit standards, I think Clarissa qualifies as real, and I have no problems lending her to the young Lizzy Bennet for the duration of this story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm and its aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those concerned, it is an actual snowstorm--flakes of white stuff falling out of the sky. At Pemberley, in addition to having a lot of snow to shovel, that means looking in on the old people and the new babies, and Darcy goes to do that. The angst reaches its peak when he is a couple of hours late getting home because one of his men has been injured. And that is the sum total of the angst.

The Storm 

 

Darcy was the first to awaken, early in the morning, as was his custom when in residence at Pemberley. He experienced a moment of disorientation before realizing that he was in his wife’s room, in her bed, and that he had been there all night. He could not resist burying his face in her tousled hair and breathing its sweet scent. To his surprise, she was instantly awake; her eyes flew open, and she turned and regarded him with astonishment. 

 

“Good morning, my beautiful wife.” Darcy smiled and brushed her lips with his own. “Have you slept well?” 

 

“Like a stone,” she replied. “But what—why are you here?” 

 

“You do not remember asking me to stay?” 

 

Elizabeth blinked, pushed her hair out of her face, and blushed becomingly. “Oh, and so I did. Such a dreadful thing for me to do. I am ashamed of myself.” Her smile vanished, and she dropped her eyes. 

“And why is it so dreadful?” He lifted her chin. “What is wrong with a husband and wife sharing a bed for the night?” 

 

“But so very—so, so--” she stopped speaking, and the corners of her mouth turned up. She gave a small chuckle followed by a hearty laugh which transformed her face and lit up her eyes. Darcy could not help but join in. “It is so very unladylike,” she finished. 

 

Darcy could hold back no longer. He gathered her more closely into his arms and began to kiss her. The chaste kisses they had shared up to now soon gave way before his increasing ardor as his tongue played with her lips, teasing her, begging her to open to him. When he felt her response, shy at first, but increasingly passionate, he said against her lips, “This is to your liking, my darling?” 

 

“Yes,” she breathed, and threw her arms around his neck. 

 

At that precise moment they heard the knock at Elizabeth’s door. Darcy threw on his dressing-gown and walked barefoot, interposing himself between the doorway and the bed. He opened the door to reveal Cooper, his valet, who neatly managed to avoid looking into the room. 

 

“I am deeply sorry for disturbing you, sir, but the circumstances of the weather require your presence downstairs.” 

 

“Thank you, Cooper. I shall come to my chamber in a few minutes. Please see that Mrs. Darcy’s maid is sent to her.” 

 

Darcy closed the door and turned back to Elizabeth who was now getting out of bed. “Shall we continue this later, Mrs. Darcy? I find your kisses are becoming more and more difficult to resist.” 

 

“Yes, please,” sighed Elizabeth. She put up her face for one more kiss, but Franklin could be heard bustling in the dressing-room. “Until tonight?” She blushed furiously at her audacity. 

 

Darcy’s laugh rumbled in his chest. “Yes. I shall be counting the hours until tonight. But I do hope you will join me for breakfast in a few minutes.” With that they parted. 

 

Elizabeth greeted Franklin cheerfully and was soon dressed in another woolen gown and petticoats. She ventured a look outside and saw that snow had begun to fall. “Franklin, what do you suppose Mr. Darcy will be doing today?” 

 

“He and some of the men will take baskets to a few of the tenants in greatest need, most likely. It will not take long, because they had baskets only a week ago. The men will just look in on them to ensure they can get through the storm without trouble. Mr. Darcy is a good landlord and a good master, as was his father.” 

 

“Thank you for telling me.” Elizabeth smiled at her maid in the mirror, and in another few moments, her hair was done and Franklin pronounced her ready. She ran lightly down the stairs to the breakfast-room, where Darcy was already seated. 

 

“Franklin was telling me about what you will be doing today, Fitzwilliam. How many visits will you make?” 

“I believe we have three or four, and all are near the house. The purpose is really to see to it that they have what they need in terms of firewood and so forth to get through a few days without neighbors who would usually assist them.” 

 

“How long do you think it will take? And should I go after breakfast and offer to assist with the food baskets?” 

 

“There is no need, dearest. Everything is prepared and loaded into a wagon. Two other men and I will accompany the driver on horseback. It is nearly eight o’clock, light enough for us to depart in a few minutes. Our most serious errand will be taking one of the younger men to stay at the Martin farm for a few days. Mr. Martin broke his leg about the time of our wedding, and his two boys are full young to handle feeding and milking the cows if the storm is bad. An able-bodied man will be of great use.” 

 

Elizabeth sighed. “I hope soon to be able to visit the tenants myself. I feel badly for not having been out to them yet.” 

 

“You will do very well indeed, Elizabeth. You have not yet had time to begin. However, it is customary for the menfolk to take over this task when the weather is as bad as this promises to be.” Darcy took her hand across the table. “We should be home by mid-day or a little after.” 

 

They rose from the table and were approached by Mrs. Reynolds. “Good morning, Mrs. Darcy. Mr. Darcy.” She handed Darcy a note before continuing. “Here is a list of the cottages to be visited, sir. There are only three altogether, and we have prepared a small basket for each one. You already know about Mr. Martin. Jenny Thompson gave birth to her first child two days ago. She is doing well, and the babe is robust and is feeding well. Their basket includes nourishing custard and wine jelly for Jenny and some other supplies a new mother might need. Mr. Thompson is with her, and their needs are not urgent. The only other person who needs a visit is old Mr. Fretwell. We have prepared a good stew for him which he can heat easily, but you may wish to check on his supply of kindling. He has plenty of firewood of course. All is loaded in the wagon, and they will be ready to depart in about a quarter-hour.” 

 

Darcy looked at the list. “All are within two miles of the house, and Mr. Fretwell is the most distant. We can easily make a circuit. It is pure chance that it has turned out this way, but it will certainly work to our advantage. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.” 

 

“Godspeed, Mr. Darcy. We shall have a hot meal waiting for you upon your return.” With a smile for them both, she was gone as quickly as she had arrived. 

 

Elizabeth and Darcy walked arm in arm to one of the side doors adjoining a lane that led to the barn. Elizabeth grasped Darcy's scarf and settled it more snugly around his neck. "Take care of yourself, Fitzwilliam." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. To Darcy’s astonishment as well as her own, her kiss was eager, inviting, passionate. Her soft lips tempted him to taste her more deeply. 

 

Darcy could not help but respond, moaning against her lips and pulling her as close to himself as he could, his arms tightening around her. He raised her chin with one hand an instant before his lips found hers. As before, she could feel his gentle, playful tongue begging her to open to him. With no need for thought, she complied, imitating him shyly, offering her mouth to him. Her knees grew weak, and she felt a delicious shiver as she clung with both hands to his woolen scarf. The feelings, the sensations he was awakening in her were exquisite. She wanted—oh, she wanted—but she knew not what. She pressed herself against him, and to her shock, felt that most secret part of him, firm and erect, pressed closely against her. 

 

Darcy, for his part, experienced a fierce joy as he felt desire spark, ignite, and catch fire in his Elizabeth—knowing that he was the cause. It took all the strength of his will not to pick her up and carry her upstairs. He broke off the kiss, whispering against her lips, "That pleased you, Lizzy?" 

 

"Oh, yes. I am only sorry you must leave. Promise me you will return home safely and kiss me again." 

 

"I will be back, and I will kiss you that way for the rest of our lives." 

 

She placed her hands on his chest and brushed his lips with her own before taking a step back. "I will hold you to your promise." When he put his hand on the door to open it, she called him back. "Fitzwilliam! Please tell me you do not think I am naturally bad! Please promise me that you do not think I am wanton." 

 

He laughed down at her and then grew serious. "You do not have a naturally bad bone in your body. You are all that is good. What happens between the two of us cannot be bad, so long as it is pleasing to us both. I have been a fool for not realizing it sooner. But I will make it up to you." 

 

He kissed her again more gently, but no less passionately than before. Then he put on his hat, buttoned up his heavy coat, opened the door and was gone. The falling snow seemed to dance in the air before her eyes. She brushed her hand across her lips, feeling that she could somehow still taste him, wishing that she could call him back to her arms. He was needed, and she resolutely turned and went downstairs to Mrs. Reynolds. 

 

The Wait 

 

She found the housekeeper in the comfortable room that served as her parlor and office. Mrs. Reynolds stood up with a smile when Elizabeth entered. 

 

"Please sit down, Mrs. Reynolds! I came to ask where you keep the basket of sewing for the poor and needy. I feel the need to keep myself profitably engaged today." 

 

"Yes indeed, Mrs. Darcy. The basket is kept here, in my office, and your assistance will be very welcome." Mrs. Reynolds went to a table in the corner and returned with a large workbasket. "You will find that the articles in here have been cut out ready for sewing. There is a goodly supply of thread along with needles, pins, scissors, buttons, and everything necessary to the work. It is good of you to offer to help. This work never ends." 

 

"I am not talented at embroidery or fancy work, but I can sew a straight seam and put in a hem. This is just what I need to work on." 

 

"I will send someone to you with work candles. Where will you be sitting?" 

 

"I plan to sit in my small sitting room near Mr. Darcy's study. Would you please also send to Franklin and ask her to send my thimble? It is in my trinket box since I have not sewn a stitch since my arrival here." 

 

Elizabeth picked up the workbasket and went to her sitting room, where a footman was already busy placing and lighting the work candles. He built up the fire, and a second footman came in to bring the requested thimble. Elizabeth was soon busy with a child's shirt, and after she had stitched up one side, she looked out of the window. The snow was falling fast now, and the grass had acquired a good covering. She needed the work candles. The normally bright, sunny room was rendered gray and gloomy by the gloomy weather outside. 

 

She permitted her thoughts to stray to the kisses she and her husband had shared that morning. For her, at least, they had been transformative. She had not had the slightest idea of the depths of feeling he could awaken in her or that she could be entirely ruled by those feelings. She had wanted the kisses to continue forever, and their parting had felt cruel. Above all, she was immensely glad that his regard for her had not diminished. She treasured his assurance that she was not wanton or bad. Elizabeth returned to her sewing with a will. It was just the sort of work that would prevent her from worrying too much about him. 

 

Her fingers flew, and she had just finished setting in the second tiny sleeve when Mrs. Reynolds entered carrying a tray with tea, fruit, and sandwiches. "It is past noon, Mrs. Darcy. I thought you might be hungry after such an early breakfast." She set the tray down on a nearby table. 

 

"Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. I was getting a bit hungry." Elizabeth gestured to the chair opposite hers. "Will you sit down and join me? I have been thinking of this sewing all morning, and I have some questions." 

 

Mrs. Reynolds thanked her, and the two were soon settled with tea and sandwiches. 

 

"I did not bring my workbox when I left Longbourn," Elizabeth began. "My mother was convinced that great ladies would have no time for plain sewing, or as she called it 'ordinary' sewing, and my proficiency at embroidery is very poor. She carried the day, and I managed to carry off only my thimble." 

 

Mrs. Reynolds smiled. "Your mother is very genteel. But Pemberley is such a large place that it takes many hands to keep up with the needs of the poor. Even Mr. Darcy's mother busied herself with it whenever she could." 

 

"I thought she might have. And perhaps because I never developed a talent for fancy work, I did become proficient at garments just like the little shirt I have been finishing this morning. My sister Jane and I did all of that work for the needy on my father’s estate. I can only hope and pray that our sister Mary will pick up where we left off. But this leads me to my question. I should like to get a workbox or a small work table and place it in this room. I could then gather several pieces at a time from the large workbasket in your parlor and have a ready supply close at hand. Anything I need in the way of supplies can be easily purchased in Lambton, I am sure. I wonder if there is an appropriate piece of furniture somewhere in Pemberley." 

 

Mrs. Reynolds smiled. "I believe there is just such a table in the attics. Let us get through today, and I will send one of the men up to fetch it down." She stood and curtsied. "I had best get back to work now.” 

“Thank you for sharing luncheon with me, Mrs. Reynolds.” As the housekeeper turned to leave, the wind picked up with a gust that rattled the windows. "Have you any idea when they will return, Mrs. Reynolds?" 

 

"We can look for them by mid-afternoon, Mrs. Darcy." 

 

Elizabeth sat back and resumed her sewing. She had hoped to see her husband sooner. Much sooner. A glance at the window showed no features of the landscape at all, just whirling, white snow. She continued to sew, finishing the first tiny shirt and starting the second. As her needle flashed, she listened to the clock, hearing it chime the hours of one. . .then two. . .then three. It began to grow darker outside, and as the clock chimed four, a footman came in with more candles. He built up the fire but had no news about Mr. Darcy and the other men. 

 

At five, Franklin entered with her own workbasket. “I have finished all of the mending, Mrs. Darcy, and I am at liberty to work on items from the poor basket now.” 

 

“Thank you, Franklin. You are welcome to sit here with me, since I have these work candles lit. And the fire is warm.” 

 

Elizabeth had just finished the second shirt, and the two women selected soft squares of flannel to be hemmed into washing-flannels and soft receiving blankets for babies. They worked quietly and companionably, saying little until the clock struck six. 

 

Mrs. Reynolds entered with a tea tray, and once again, Elizabeth invited her to sit. She poured tea for the three of them, and after thanking her, Mrs. Reynolds spoke. “I have ordered dinner held until Mr. Darcy’s return, ma’am.” 

 

“An excellent idea, Mrs. Reynolds. This tea is very welcome, but I find myself with little appetite.” 

 

As she spoke, there was a sudden commotion in the hall. Elizabeth put down her teacup with shaking hands and flew through the door. Darcy stood in his greatcoat, earnestly conferring with Mr. Hughes, the butler. Elizabeth ran to him. Her anguished cry brought the other two women running as she threw herself into his arms. His greatcoat was covered in blood. “Fitzwilliam, you are hurt!” 

 

Homecoming 

 

“No, no, my dear.” He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the footman before taking her by the shoulders. “Tis not my blood. One of the men has been injured in an accident. He will recover, but it fell to me to tend to him as we brought him home in the wagon. No harm has come to me.” He kissed her forehead, not wishing to do more in front of the servants, and turned to Mrs. Reynolds. “Ah, Mrs. Reynolds. Young Thomas has met with an accident. He was splitting kindling for old Mr. Fretwell, and the axe slipped. He has a severe gash on his lower leg and has lost some blood. Nothing vital was injured. Cook is with him now, but I feel sure she will be wanting your assistance.” 

 

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Reynolds curtsied and was gone with the butler following her. 

 

Darcy turned to a footman. “You might as well dispose of that coat, Frederick. I fear it is ruined. Fortunately for me, it had recently been demoted to third-best, else Cooper would never have permitted me to hear the end of it.” His inner clothing had not been affected by the injury. 

 

Once the small army of servants had vanished, he took Elizabeth in his arms and kissed her soundly. “You worried when we did not come home on time,” he murmured. “I am sorry. Thomas’ wound is severe. He will recover, but it took two of us to tend him in the wagon so he would not lose too much blood. I am sure you have seen similar accidents on your father’s estate.” 

 

Elizabeth smiled ruefully and nodded. “I have, indeed. I am usually much more intrepid than this. Let us attribute it to the nerves of an almost-new bride. I should not have worried so.” 

 

“I must go upstairs and change. I am not fit to be around a lady. One more kiss.” 

 

“Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth looked up at him and blushed most becomingly as she realized she could not say what she wished to say. Not yet. “Could you not wait a while? Dinner will not be served until we order it. I thought perhaps—perhaps . . . “ 

 

“What did you think, my darling? You have only to ask.” Darcy smoothed the hair back from her rosy face. 

 

“I thought perhaps I might come up with you.” She put her hand to her mouth and lowered her eyes. 

 

“Of course, you may.” He placed her arm in his and covered her hand with his own. “Let us go up now. We can send for supper later.” 

 

When they got to her door, he said, “Dismiss your maid, and when you have done so, come through the door between our rooms.” 

 

Elizabeth laughed at herself after she had bid Franklin goodnight. She was full of what her mother would call “tremblings and flutterings.” She had her husband’s assurance that he did not find her wanton or wicked after their shared kisses, or even after she had begged him to sleep in her bed the previous night. She could still hear his soft laughter, his gentle assertion that she was all that was good. Would he still think so when she had shared her most secret desires and wishes? Should she keep them to herself? Or was it wrong of her to keep secrets in this most tender, most intimate aspect of their marriage? She drew a deep, shuddering breath and reflected that if there were no trust here, then it could not exist at all. Her heart beat rapidly, and she wondered if her legs would hold her up as she knocked quietly at their communicating door. 

 

Darcy had not had a great deal of time to himself that day. However, the first hour or so of the errand had been quiet and free from trouble or interruptions, providing him with time to consider what had occurred. His wife was clearly a passionate woman, and the nature of their physical relationship must have left her frustrated and wanting more. She was innocent, bless her, and she might not even be fully aware of what she was missing. She was one of the most intelligent people he had ever met, but she might not have the words to speak with him about all of this. He had decided that the best approach would include gentle encouragement and quiet attention to any confidences she cared to share with him. Whatever transpired, this night would be for her. He opened the door. 

 

Elizabeth ran into his arms, holding her face up ready for his kiss. He had not bathed or changed his clothes, and he smelled of cold air and laundry soap, traces of sandalwood, and sweat—all underlaid by his own indefinable scent. Once again, Elizabeth’s knees grew weak. Once again, Darcy felt her passion spark and catch fire as she responded to him. She essayed a kiss of her own, and he grew light-headed at her caress. 

“Let us go and sit down by the fire,” he finally said. 

 

“Yes. When you kiss me that way, I am not sure my knees will continue to hold me up,” she laughed. 

 

They sat, and she immediately put one arm around his neck and with the other hand began playing with the tresses of his hair. “It is so soft,” she said. “And--and--” Here she stopped, blushing to the roots of her hair. 

 

“And what? You are so pretty when you blush. Tell me.” He brushed her lips gently with his own. 

 

“I love the way you smell. When you leave me after—after we—well, after you visit me, I find your pillow and put my face on it, and it helps me imagine that you are still there. It is comforting.” 

 

Darcy found this assertion most intriguing. “There is a remedy for that, Lizzy. We might share a bed, you know. Tis a surefire remedy against cold and loneliness as well.” He took her hand and began kissing each part of it—fingers, knuckles, the back of the hand, and the sensitive wrist—before moving on to the other. When he had finished, he looked at her again and said, “And what else? Tell me another thing that will make you blush so becomingly.” 

 

She hung her head. “It all makes me blush, Fitzwilliam, for I have no idea what may be right and good and what may be entirely dreadful and wrong.” 

 

“Lizzy, none of it is dreadful or wrong.” Darcy sighed, for he knew this conversation was of great importance to their future happiness. “You and I have allowed our parents—my father and your mother—to invade the privacy of our bedchamber and to dictate to us what is gentlemanly or ladylike. They do not belong here.” 

 

“Then let us tell them ever so politely to leave.” Elizabeth thought for a moment. “Suppose we were just Lizzy and Will Darcy, settling into our little cottage with our vine and fig tree. And suppose we loved each other as much as you and I do. What would we do then?” 

 

Darcy thought for a long moment. “Each of us would do our best to learn what pleased the other, and we would do those things, and our own happiness and pleasure would also be increased.” 

 

“I want to please you above all things, Fitzwilliam.” 

 

“Then let me give you pleasure, Lizzy, and that will please me above all things.” He stopped and smiled down at her and pulled her onto his lap. “Now, come over here. We are far too formally attired for this occasion.” 

 

Darcy awoke far into the night, hearing a distant clock chime three. Instead of the usual chilled sheets and icy-cold room, he felt himself surrounded by warmth. He lay curled around Elizabeth, spoon-fashion, and under one of his cupped hands he could feel her breast and the steady beating of her heart beneath it. His chin was on her shoulder, and he was breathing in the fragrance of her hair. The heated air surrounding them seemed to shimmer in the dim firelight, with faint traces of lavender and sandalwood and love. He could not remember ever feeling this warm, this comfortable and at ease, even in his own bed. 

 

Once she had made the remark about banishing their parents from their bedchamber, Elizabeth had shyly unveiled to him a wholly different attitude with respect to their marriage. So long as she remained in the shelter of his arms, she was by turns bashful and wanton, hesitant and demanding, plain-spoken and tongue-tied. She followed his lead, and he tried to coax her gently along, reassuring her that every whispered desire, every stammered question, was delightful to him, and that her wish was his command. The first moment she found bliss in his arms, his own joy was boundless. 

 

He could feel himself stirring to life, and he tried to still his thoughts so that he would not waken her. In that effort he was not entirely successful; she turned and murmured something in her slumber and threw an arm across him with that endearing proprietary air. He found he liked this position better. It reminded him of those nights he had visited her when he had soothed her to sleep. He had never realized until the past two nights that Elizabeth awoke of her own accord in the dark, cold hours after midnight. He dared to hope that, having satisfaction tonight, she might sleep her fill and awaken refreshed in the morning. She burrowed into his side, murmured again, and then grew quiet and still. Darcy’s thoughts slowed. His eyes closed, and he drifted into sleep—alone with his wife for the first time.


End file.
